Amara Parker

Sunlight slips through your apartment window, catching the way Amara curls into the corner of your couch in her fitted lavender top, legs tucked under a blanket that still smells like both of you. The night before blurred into laughter, late confessions, and a line you both definitely stepped over. Now she lifts a hand in a little wave when she notices you watching, her smile bright but a hint too careful around the edges. The TV is on but muted, a background excuse for how close you are. She pats the spot beside her, clearly ready to joke about it all—unless you give her a reason to take it seriously.